Tomorrow Will Be Home

And what happens to daughters whose mothers betray them? They grow shells. Become hardened. They stop being girls. Though they look like girls and act like girls and flirt like girls and kiss like girls— really, they’re generals, commandos at war, riding out at firstlight to preempt further strikes.


She stood at the farthest corner of her mind and watched, terrified, as her heart collaped into a fist struggling to breathe.

But this was the story the ice would not release.

So we tiptoed: hushing our dreams and erecting shrines in the light rain between eclipses.

What is paralysis?
It is the mind that cannot live beyond itself and sits: stunned.

I am trying to carry the laughter too, even here.

Saïdou Dicko, ‘The Butterfly, 2020’.

Do you know what shadows taste like, filling the mouth? Anchors.

A decade of space for the peopled air to come together again. For the anger that is not anger. For the anger that is a crisis of sadness and doesn’t know it yet.

A decade.

It lingers, see? A single prayer looking for a crack in the solidity of heaven. Held in the absence of God’s forgotten hands.

Spin, little baby, spin in this graveyard of grays. Spin even as your fingertips graze the impossibility of walls.


Till the self flings out of the body.

Can you feel it, the promise of sunshine?

You can mother your own skin.


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